The Night of the Hazards of the Job
by GM
Summary: During the Civil War, Captain James West escorts General Hazard with unexpected dangers and enemies.


THE NIGHT OF THE

HAZARDS OF THE JOB

by

gm

WWW-North and South crossover

Spring - 1865

The tent city-cum-headquarters camp for the newest general of the Potomac Army should have been something more than this. That was George Hazard's unhumble opinion as he tied his horse to a tree and walked to the tent nearest the flag pole where the Starts and Stripes fluttered in the afternoon breeze. A junior officer to General Grant, Hazard was anxious to fit into the command structure here with the highest commander in the country.

The few soldiers in the area were casually dressed, sitting, standing; playing cards, guitars or fiddles. They were within shouting distance of the front lines, yet the air was relaxed, amusing General Hazard. His cousin, General Sheridan, was known as an unorthodox leader, but Grant went beyond anyone's expectations. Such laxity in the central military camp of the Union was a strange hallmark of the General of the Potomac, Ulysses S. Grant. Sam, as George called him, was a brilliant tactical general, but this lack of decorum was surprising, even though George himself had never been a spit and polish kind of officer.

The flap to the largest tent flapped open and shut with the fickle wind currents. Hazard peered inside. Doing paperwork at a small table was a young, dark-haired man, shirt-sleeves rolled past the elbows. George glanced to the cot, the only other furniture in the room, and saw no hat or jacket to indicate rank.

The compactly, wiry man with sharp green eyes turned and gave a half-hearted salute/greeting. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes, I'm to report to General Grant."

The younger soldier snapped to attention when he focused on the uniform. "General Hazard?"

"At ease," Hazard responded. Many gave him second looks when introduced because he was such a young man for the senior rank. Daring escapades, good luck, and the necessities of war had favored the handsome industrialist with mostly good fortune. "Sam runs a casual camp and I certainly don't stand on ceremony."

The man relaxed. Hazard held out a hand and the younger man came over and shook. "Captain James West, the General's aide, sir. The General is taking a nap right now and asked not to be disturbed. We had a late night of artillery exchange last night. But I can fill you in on the General's plan." He gestured for Hazard to take the chair. He swept aside some papers and unrolled a map across the desk.

"The Rebs have us stalemated at this gorge between ridges. If we could get through there we could get our artillery up on the high ground and drive the whole Confederate line south - probably all the way to the river."

"Who? Which regiment are we facing, do you know?"

The keen question made West pause to study the new General for a moment. "Virginians are on the front lines."

Hazard flinched. Orry's army. How often would fate throw him across the battle field from his closest friend? They could test their luck only so often, and then it could turn against them. How long until one of them inadvertently killed the other? They might not even know the terrible, ironic tragedy until after the war ended. So many times in this horrible conflict - every battle - friend killed friend; brother killed brother, cousin killed cousin.

West sighed quietly. "You know someone over there. Relation?"

"You could say. A friend closer than my own brother."

West nodded, his expression as tight as his lip twitched. "Yes."

Hazard studied the younger captain. "You know exactly what I mean, don't you? Your brother is out there somewhere."

West shouldered past him without comment. The young captain could have blamed his attitude – edging on rudeness to a general! – to the laxness of military protocol enjoyed in Grant's officer corps. James refused to admit his surliness surfaced whenever someone mentioned the loss of a friend or brother in this wretched war. He had done well, rising quickly in the ranks after enlisting right out of West Point. Natural talents toward tactics, action and mayhem spurred him into the highest echelons of command. His bravery and loyalty brought him to the notice of Grant early on and he had served under the general for several years.

Since youth, West attributed his success to his attitude of confidence in himself. There were friends, there were helpers, and plenty of women. The relationships were kept at arm's length, though. He could work well with others, and obeyed commands to the letter, but always stretched talents to creative success. Through it all he rarely opened up to allow someone too close. Perhaps his distrust stemmed from arrogance. Maybe from a suspicion that others had their own agenda and in his pride that he could do things better, he remained somewhat aloof.

Until the war. Until he was assigned to help a fellow Union captain at Shiloh. What was a bloody horror for most of the battling forces was an introduction to a new world for West. He aided a man-of-a hundred-faces Union officer seconded to the Pinkerton agency. This genius was adept at trickery, wit, cunning, and bravery beyond measure. With a boldness that showed nerveless skill, the spy saved West from capture, included him in a daring mission, and returned them to Union lines advancing the cause of the North.

Toasting their skill and triumph from a silver flask sported by his new friend, James West and Aretmus Gordon sealed their first of many adventures. At the razor-edge of death a dozen times, the two had fought and cheated their way to victory ever since, working together often. Over the years as Gordon plied his skillful artifice through horribly grievous missions, he frequently returned to snag West as his accomplice. They came to trust each other more than anyone else in the ravaging war. They came to understand each other. And most importantly, West knew there was one person on earth who would do anything for him - anything - without fail.

Then came the fall. The greatest fear. Going for weeks or months without hearing from Artie was common. Behind enemy lines, the spy could not send word often. Then the worst fighting of the war.

"My greatest fear is that we'll end up killing each other," Hazard continued, ruminating more to himself than to his companion.

Forcing his thoughts away from the dread fears played out over and over in his mind, West's tone was bitter. "Happens in every battle.

"You know where your brother is?"

"No," he replied slowly, then snapped out of his mental anxiety.

"More than one?" Hazard asked sympathetically.

"No. No. Actually, I'm an only child. And I learned early on that war is not a place to cultivate friendships." His face held a distant expression, his words faded from conviction to doubt, then to regret. "You can't count on anyone. They all die."

The words echoed with the pain of experience. Hazard did not question the source. They all had losses, wounds and scars.

West refocused on the map. "Anyway, what we need from you, and your weapons factory, sir, is some special armaments to smash the Reb blockade. It would take weeks to get some big guns up here. Then, they'd be so heavy, I doubt we could get them up the ridge. General Grant is an impatient man, as you know, and he wants this siege to end soon. If you could help us adapt some of your cannons that might do the trick. Something short-range, small, but powerful is what we need. Something we could get up the ridge with a few horses, then we could make some progress."

"You mean convert some of Hazard's artillery to a smaller size, Captain?"

"Yes. Not in the factory, but out here in the field."

Brushing his brown hair out of his eyes, Hazard studied the map and pinched his lower lip as he thought out the proposition. "It's never been done before."

"That's why the General has assigned me as your personal assistant. I have a knack for improvisation and weaponry."

"Sounds like we could make this work."

West grinned wryly. "We WILL make this work, sir, because General Grant said so."

"And what the General wants -"

"-the General gets." "The General gets."

They both finished in unison.

"Let's go check out the terrain," West suggested as he grabbed his hat from under some papers. "Then I'll buy you a beer at the tavern in town, if that's all right with you, General."

"Sounds like we're going to get along just fine, Captain West."

They galloped the horses past the tent camp toward the wooded hills occupied by the Union forces. The ride was invigorating and brought enough action and outdoor clarity to push away the dark thoughts of loss that haunted West. He was unsure if not knowing specifics about Artie's final hours was merciful or not. Was he too soft to give up and count his friend dead without proof? Was it failing to not trust his friend's talent to think that Artie got out of the Wilderness alive? Then why no contact? Usually Artie was so adamant that Jim stay in touch through mutual friends or dispatches. This time, though, so many soldiers died without anyone knowing their final resting place. Blown to pieces, shot and abandoned in a ditch, captured and sent to the death-hole of Andersonville. And for those in the Hell of the Wilderness, burned alive in the mess where some fighting on the same side killed their own because of the smoke and fires obscuring the field of battle.

Staying in the saddle kept West's purpose focused. They were in dangerous territory. The valley was dotted with ditches, shell holes, splintered trees and charred dirt. Scattered rifle fire, distant and sporadic, cracked in the afternoon air. Their course took them behind the artillery line, through several pickets, up into the steep, rocky high ground. Showing daring and excellent horsemanship – confirming he had earned the cavalry bars on his collar - West urged his horse on, and Hazard spurred his mount to follow up on the hard trek. The pair stopped at the edge of a ridge and looked out at a lower ledge of land across the jagged gorge which served as the neutral ground for the two armies.

"On the other side of this ridge is a cliff face. Impossible to scale. That's why the Rebel's aren't on our flank. We hold this high ground." West pulled out some binoculars of an unusual design and handed them to Hazard, then took out a similar pair from the saddlebag and looked through them himself. "You can see a few of their pickets up on that ridge, but it's of little use to them, so they don't waste the manpower up there."

"I suppose they tried."

"Sure, but they can't get their big guns up there, either. And we're out of range of their artillery, even if they put it on the slope over there."

They dismounted and walked along the edge of the cliff as they studied the terrain; a few enemy positions they could spot, and the rocky, sharp slope they had just come up. Several theories of pullies, tracks and levers were discussed and dismissed as each officer offered tentative theories on how to accomplish their assignment. It was finally decided they would work on modifying a short, small cannon, then bring it up the ridge on horseback and assemble it on the top of the ridge.

"That will give us a busy week," West commented as he put away his binoculars.

"A week!"

"Didn't I mention that, sir? The General wants this done before Lee gets some reinforcements from Hood. That's some time next week as far as our intelligence sources say."

"A week!" Hazard shook his head. "Impossible. We can't do it."

"You don't understand. General Grant wants it done. He's the commander. We find a way to make it happen."

"I know. Just how close are we to the enemy? Haven't they tried to out-flank you on this ridge?"

"Of course. We've got strong picket lines, as you saw, coming up the two accessible sides of the hill. The other two sides, this one," he indicated the cliff that overlooked the Confederate lines, "and the south side," he swept his arm toward the right," are inaccessible rocky mountainsides."

"In other words, we'll have this ridge to ourselves to assemble the weapon."

"You'll see only Union blue up here, General Hazard."

Hazard nodded his acceptance and did another survey of the ridge top. He pulled out a paper and pencil and jotted notes of estimated distances and a small sketch of the terrain. After he was satisfied with the assessment, he wandered back to where West held the horses.

"How good are your intelligence sources?" he asked as he secured his materials in the saddlebags. He took a long drink of the water in the canteen.

West shrugged, his jaw tightening . "Don't know." He looked out at some distant point on the horizon. "Can't trust 'em anymore." He had faith, dependence – his life - on only one person in his adult life. That ended in the Wilderness.

Some trace of - bitterness? - regret? - in the voice made Hazard study his companion. "Could we ever?" he joked.

"Yeah. Once."

Hazard knew better than to ask what memory tainted West's viewpoint. They all had too many ugly recollections; pasts they would sooner forget, things they did not want to talk about with anyone. He handed the binoculars back to West, but the captain waved them away.

"Keep them, you'll need them for this job."

Hazard was thrilled. "Thank you! Best glasses I've ever seen. Custom made, definitely not army issue."

"No." West looked at the field glasses, his eyes narrowed then he looked away. One of the many brilliant inventions that Artie had built for their use. One of a score of talented devices that had saved their lives and won the day. Before. "I was holding them for a friend. He was reassigned from his regiment to assist Pinkerton's people."

"The spies?"

"Yeah. He - won't need them anymore."

Hazard nodded. He wrapped the strap around the saddle horn. "That's why you said war is not the place for friendships, isn't it? Just like me, you have a friend out there who is closer than any brother could ever be."

West did not respond.

Hazard's throat went dry, imagining the horror of how he would feel if Orry was lost as West's friend certainly was. "Your friend's dead."

West's jaw tightened. "I might never know. He was with Hancock at the wedge at Gettysburg. Maybe he used up his luck then and twenty times since."

There had been such entertaining speculations. Before Artie, West did not contemplate about a future after the war. So many soldiers and officers he knew had fallen . . . . But Artie had resurrected hope within Jim. The flamboyant Gordon had been a traveling actor before the war. He brought to the fight the talents learned on the boards; the disguises, the ability to melt into another persona without a ripple, the brash confidence that he could work his way through any scene as long as he pressed through because the play was everything.

In the quiet times when the two officers – now fast friends – managed to meet together, Artie longed for a return to the stage. Then after Gettysburg, there was a new side of him that emerged, a soberness born of tragedy.

'I want to do something meaningful after the war, Jim.'

'You would miss the stage, Artie.'

'Maybe there will be something to this spy business. What do you think, Jim, would you be game?'

'I like the cavalry, Artie. All that disguise and showmanship is for you.'

There was a gleam in the brown eyes when Gordon answered. 'I think, after the war, there will be limitless possibilities for two bright, enterprising young men as ourselves.'

Hazard sigh brought West's mind back to the mission. "We better get back, General Hazard."

Soberly, the ranking officer shared, "I've searched for my friend. Done what I could. It's not easy. I'm sure you've done all you could for yours."

The confession whipped West back to his miserable reverie. "All I know is that he's gone." He shrugged again, as if to brush off the loss, but the acrid memory was still evident in his tone and anguished expression.

With sad sympathy, Hazard nodded his understanding. The battle of the Wilderness was a nightmare for both sides. Soldiers, blue and grey, were killed by the thousands. Horrible, close fighting within heavily wooded land had cost too much blood. Those who had not died of wounds had died from the terrible fires started by exploding shells. The fighting had gone on for days, and it had labeled General Grant a savage, merciless demon, although most commentators safely back on the home front considered the disaster a Union victory. Hazard always felt that was because Grant had lost less than his opponents and that made it some kind of decision for the US. To thousands of families on both sides of the flag, it no longer mattered. Poor West, he would probably never know if his friend was killed, burned like so many others, shot or maybe captured.

"The scars from this war will last a long time," Hazard told him. "The doubt is almost the worst. The never knowing how our brothers are faring, if they are still alive. Maybe your friend made it out."

Anger flared in dreary fatalism to cover West's hurt. "Maybe. Probably shot on the spot. Spies don't carry identification and usually don't wear any uniform." He pounded a fist on the saddle. "What does it matter anyway? War robs us of the best. Let's finish our recon."

Hazard gazed out at the distant ridge one last time, not seeing the landscape. Orry Main was somewhere over there. How would this mission affect him? The gun he was asked to build could blow his friend to bits and, like West, he would probably never know the fate of a close brother. It was an ugly way to treat a friend.

West looped the rein up to the saddle horn and lithely mounted his black horse. He tugged the muscled animal into a tight turn and then stopped. For a moment he looked into the forest to the north, then to the cliff edge to the south. The black horse snorted with impatience and struggled against the tight rein. West firmly held the horse back, and the animal danced with nervousness.

"Mount up," West whispered as he leaned over to the side, ostensibly petting his mount's neck. "We've got visitors coming up on the south."

"Visitors?" Hazard asked, automatically obeying the warning.

"Yeah. Old Duke here gets real nervous when he sniffs the Rebs. And it's sure not our boys coming up the cliff side of that south ridge."

Hazard leaped into the saddle and West spurred his mount into a trot toward the western slope. They reached an outcropping of rocks at the edge of the ridge, from there the land sloped sharply into a thick forest. West held up his hand.

"They're coming up this side, too."

Hazard nodded to the north side, more steep than the western side they had come up. "Over there?"

"It'll be bad on the horses, but we'll have to chance it. But not before we give ourselves a head start." He turned the big black Duke back, close to the northern slope. He reached into the saddlebag and drew out a flask. "Carry one?" he asked Hazard. He removed his scarf and soaked it with what smelled like rich Kentucky whiskey. Then West stuffed the scarf into the neck of the flask.

Hazard, like most officers, had a similar flask, and copied West's actions. The captain handed him several vestas.

"Wait till you see Reb grey, general, then light the scarf and throw it as hard as you can at their front men. Got it?"

"Yeah."

West put several matches in his teeth and trotted over to the southern cliff slope. He edged close to the precipice, then struck the vesta. He held the alcohol-soaked rag and flask in one hand, the flame in the other, as he waited for Hazard to make a move. Just then, George saw the first Confederate hat top the western slope. He lit his match, lit the rag and threw the bomb. West did the same and raced his horse past Hazard at dead speed toward the northern woods. Two explosions reverberated behind them, followed by screams. Within seconds the sounds were smothered by the pounding hooves of their horses and crash or tree branches as they plowed through the treacherous forest.

West forged his own new trail down the slope. This side was a steeper angle, and the horses had to pick their way carefully over rocks and around trees. By the time they reached a semi-level path, the woods were thick and the forest painted with brilliantly colored spring leaves. Behind Union lines, this horse trail lead into the nearest small town where the captain promised a hospitable tavern. Their pace was an easy gait through the thick trees. They never saw the four grey-jacketed soldiers until the rebels fell from some branches directly in front of them.

West's horse reared in surprise. Both officers reached for their pistols, but two confederates came out of the bushes and thrust rifles into their sides.

"Don't make a move," came a southern voice from behind and to the left of Hazard.

Hazard froze with shock.

"Now slowly pull your hands away from those guns, my fine, Union captain and, by gum a Yank general!" the voice drawled. "Now don't you officers move or my Virginia boys will plug you with holes."

The man came around to the side of West and relieved that officer of his weapon. The white-hatted southern major then walked toward Hazard. He looked up as he reached for the pistol. Hazard stared into the eyes of his friend, Orry Main. Orry stumbled, falling against the horse. He recovered quickly, placing his hand on the pistol. He hesitated, staring at his long-time friend.

"Major Main?" called one of the men.

"Yes," Orry responded hoarsely. He took the pistol and backed away from Hazard.

"Now we can kill 'em," snarled one of the men.

"No!" Orry snapped. "I said no killing."

"A dead Yankee is -"

"There will be no unnecessary killing!" Orry shouted angrily. His eyes never left Hazard. "They are our prisoners."

Nerves taut in readiness, West waited for an opportunity. There was no question that he had to get them out of this mess. He refused to allow the capture or murder of a general to be on his record. The lead would have to be taken by him. He did not know how to work with Hazard, and just hoped the general would fall in once the fight started. Not like working with Artie – the two of them had become tight partners – knowing - sensing –how the other would move and what feign to shift to next, how to attack and strike, fall back or drive onward.

The six army men grumbled their dislike of the order to spare the enemy, but nonetheless restrained from killing the blue coated enemies. The rifles were still trained on the prisoners when a horse and rider crunched through the dense leaves on the trail. All eyes turned to the aristocratic confederate officer with a dark, slim full-set of trim mustache and chin beard. He wore a white hat set at a jaunty angle and clean white gloves on his hands.

"Well done, major, I see you've made an excellent coup."

"Yes, thank you, General -"

"Gordon," the newcomer supplied in a cultured, slow drawl.

"Yes, of course, sir."

West lost none of his tension, his outward demeanor completely passive as the new arrival gave him a penetrating stare.

General Gordon's magnificent grey mount was spurred forward and came abreast of Major Main. He examined the two prisoners with patient, intense scrutiny. He rode close to West and stared hard at the young captain. With a riding crop he touched the open flap of the jacket.

"You'd think the Yankee's would be better dressed, I dare say," he accused acidly. "But then, I suppose we can't expect genteel behavior from General Grant's mob, can we, boys?"

"No, sir," several of the men muttered, eager to get in their own digs at the enemy.

General Gordon went so far as to brush at the blue Cavalry hat and the collar of West's shirt. Leaves and bits of tree branches fell off.

Orry momentarily shifted his attention from his friend, then to the ranking confederate officer. "General Gordon," he addressed, "I did not know you had arrived with the reinforcements so soon. Where is your escort?"

The General turned a harsh glare to the officer. "Major -?

"Main, sir. Major Orry Main."

Gordon inclined his head. His brown eyes were hard with censure. "I was not aware, major, that you needed to be informed of my movements!"

"Of course not, sir. I was just not aware -"

"Very well, then. Why are your men so far forward in enemy territory?"

"Recon, sir," Main replied.

"Well, then, Major Main, carry on. I am returning to General Lee's headquarters. I'll take these fine Yankee prizes back with me." He pulled a pistol from his holster."

"But sir -!" Orry sputtered.

"Are you questioning my authority? Do you need General Lee's word on my veracity?"

"No sir!" Orry snapped back. He glared at the General with challenge blazing in his eyes. "I question what a general is doing this far into enemy territory, all by himself."

Gordon's eyes narrowed into slits. "Let me ask you something, sir," he began with a hard, clear tone. He leaned on the saddle horn and stared at the officer eye to eye. "These prisoners," he flicked a quick glance to Hazard, " they are important to you, are they not?"

Main hesitated.

In a softer, quieter voice, the general leaned close and asked, "They are important to you, aren't they, Major Main?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "I can see the general is important. You know him. True?"

Orry nodded. "Yes, sir," he agreed slowly. He glanced from Hazard to West. "Yes, sir. From before the war."

Gordon nodded slightly. "We all have important friends, general. Some of them wear Yankee blue. We can't really hold that against a friend, can we?"

Orry stared into the unflinching brown eyes softened from the mention of bonds stretched across battle lines.

"No, sir," Orry agreed.

"Then I suggest you allow me to take charge of them," Gordon meaningfully ordered. "It is the best for everyone." He offered the hint ofa reassuring smile. "I will take good care of them. Trust me." Louder, he declared, "They will be safely delivered and you can go back to your work, major. Don't you agree?"

Main looked at Hazard. He hesitated. Hazard offered him a slight nod of understanding. No matter what decision Orry made, Hazard would accept it.

"They will be taken care of, I promise," Gordon coaxed.

Orry gave a nod and stepped back. "Yes, sir," he agreed and looked at his friend. "Yes, it's for the best."

"Thank you very much, major," the general sincerely replied.

Gordon took possession of the pistols and ordered the Yankees to ride into the woods off the path. He offered a salute to the major. Orry touched his hat in a casual acknowledgement. Just before the small party disappeared into the thick trees, Hazard turned around. Orry gave him a sharp salute, then the Yanks curved onto another path and were gone.

The small party rode for several more minutes into the forest. When they weaved through the last line of trees and onto a small, narrow road, the Confederate general trotted ahead of Hazard and abreast of West. He handed a pistol back to the captain.

"I'll trade you, Jim," he said in a voice that sounded at home in Philadelphia or New York rather than under the Mason-Dixon line, all trace of southern accent gone.

"I don't know," West returned in a cocky tone, "I kind of like this little derringer you slipped into my collar," he said as he pulled a small, hand-sized two-shot pistol from under his shirt.

"But that's -" his protest sputtered into a rueful awareness. "That's my very best, Jim -" he smiled, "ah, you had me there for a minute." He quietly, triumphantly laughed, his round face beaming with joy. "James, my boy, it's so wonderful to see you!" He leaned over to throw an arm around the captain

West returned the fervent embrace with back-thumping enthusiasm. "Artie, I can't believe it! You're alive! And how did you find us?"

"It's a long and miserable tale, James. I suggest we retire to more friendly ground to share details."

To Hazard's amazement, the rebel general stripped off the facial hair, the coat, gloves and hat and folded them all into a saddlebag. From a second bag he pulled out a Union captain's jacket and unfolded a battered union cavalry hat. Thus transformed from one side of the conflict to the other – from grey to blue – the counterfeit general followed the others as they galloped along the path, past several pickets, and finally back into Grant's camp.

Grinning with delight, West gestured to the disguised savior. "General Hazard, our rescuer is Captain Artemus Gordon."

Hazard gave the newcomer a salute. "The assist could not have come at a better moment, captain. Thank you."

"My pleasure, general." To West, he winked. "Just don't make it a habit, Jim, please. My nerves can't take seeing you at the wrong end of a barrel too many more times."

"How do you think I feel when you disappear for months at a time?" the younger officer asked.

"Fair enough, James," Gordon smirked. "I promise to avoid danger for the rest of the war if you do the same."

"Deal," he chuckled.

Once in West's tent they traded more back-slapping exchanges. Artemus Gordon pulled a flask of Kentucky whiskey from his seemingly bottomless saddlebag. Hazard was assigned procurement of three cups, which he easily acquired from lower-ranking men in nearby tents. Once settled with drinks, West asked for a more detailed explanation of his friend's appearance.

"I WAS in the Wilderness," Artemus Gordon slowly as he sipped the strong liquor. "It was Hell on earth, Jim," he admitted quietly. "I ended up well behind grey lines. I stole a horse and an officer's uniform and did what I do best, infiltrated the enemy. Sorry I couldn't get word back to you, James, but it was impossible. And I heard through a few sources that Grant's favorite cavalry officer was doing just fine," he punched his friend on the arm, "so I knew you were all right." "Leaning over he put an arm around his friend. "I am very sorry if I caused you any concern –"

West slapped him on the arm. "All that matters is that you're in one piece, Artie. So whatever you were doing it must have been important."

"That it was. I've been with Lee's army for months. When I learned of Hood's imminent arrival, I decided it was time to come back and relate my intelligence. The quickest way through the lines would be as a general, of course. And I am most familiar with my cousin, General Gordon, so I assumed his identity."

"Risky, Artie. Your cousin is well known by these men!"

"A hazard of the war," the affable spy replied. "No pun intended," he offered in a nod to Hazard.

"Why did Orry, Major Main, give in so easily?" Hazard wondered.

Gordon shrugged. "Easy. He knew I was a phony."

"What!" West snapped.

"That's why he let you two go. Don't you see?" he asked them, amazed they had not caught on to what was clearly obvious to him. "He may know my cousin, or he may have encountered me in one of my other guises. I knew from his reaction that he was your friend, General Hazard. Very common between the armies."

He flashed a sad smile to West, who nodded in mute concurrence.

"Major Main probably knew I was no southerner. So I appealed to his affection for you, general, so he knew I was leading you to safety, sir," he told Hazard. "It was obvious that you two were friends. He knew if he complied with my request, I would get you back to our lines."

Hazard shook his head in wonder. They had clashed before, he and Orry; blue and grey. Orry had given him his life back several times. He said he would never do it again, but he had.

"Why?" he pondered aloud.

"You're friends," was West's simple answer, studying Gordon, patting his friend on the knee. "We are all patriotic to our causes, but we've all seen too much killing on both sides. When your friend had the opportunity to save a life important to him, he took it."

Quietly, Gordon supplied, "Even though it went against his beliefs as a southern officer, patriotism was superseded by his friendship to you." His serious eyes rested on West for a moment, then he smiled.

"He's a good man," Hazard quietly affirmed.

He hoped the time would soon come when they would meet again as friends, not foes. He would thank Orry for remembering their shared past with stronger bonds than he recalled his officer's oath. Watching the other two men basking in their reunion, Hazard was pleased the dangerous encounter had been not just a life-saving event, but a heart-warming one for two sets of friends.

Artemus refilled their tin cups. "Then let's drink a toast to your good friend, general. Without whose cooperation, we would not be sitting here sharing these drinks."

The metal cups clinked together and the men drank in solemn silence. Each reflected, with gratitude, on the strength of friendships.

After the general left West asked for more details about Artie's adventures behind enemy lines. Regaling his friend with a few dramatic, amusing and overblown stories of his acting prowess and cunning, Gordon soon grew quiet.

"Things are looking bad for Lee's army, Jim. They can't last too long, thankfully." He released a deep sigh, staring into the tin cup that had long since been drained. "Have you given any more thought to what you want to do after the war?"

"I'll probably just stick with Grant. What about you?"

Unusually somber, Gordon stared at him with a grim expression. "I can't go back to an acting troupe, Jim. I want to pursue something to help heal this country. I was hoping you would join me."

West shook his head, but could not verbally deny the idea. They were a magnificent team; foolhardy, daring and almost without fear. The true anxiety came when he did not know if his friend was still alive. That dread would be eliminated if they ended up working together.

"Are you thinking Pinkerton?" West questioned uncertainly. "I like the cavalry, Artie."

Gordon reminded after the war the country would need far less soldiers than were enlisted. There would need to branch out.

Enthusiastically, he admonished, "And talent, such as ourselves, Jim, well, we will be in high demand." His tone and expression became serious again. "It's just that, Jim, I know you hate it when I get all emotional, but I'm used to having you around. We make an incredible team. I would sure hate to lose track of you." He slapped Jim's arm. "Besides, hasn't it been the time of our lives, risking our necks? The adventure! The triumph!"

The deep despair so close to the surface, still, thinking Artie was dead . . . . He never wanted to face that again. If they were partnered as spies or something, though, West considered, wouldn't there be that anguish more frequently? But there would be the amazing teamwork. The excelling of talents and meeting of a mind and friend that he had never known the likes of before.

A smile breaking out, he gave a nod. "I've seen you pull a lot of tricks out of your various hats, Artie, so I suppose you'll be able to figure out something like that for our future."

Artie threw an arm around his shoulder. "That's my boy, James." He poured the last of the drink into their tin cups. "To the future wherever it takes us."

"To our future," West agreed, certain there would be adventure, risk and no matter what else, a trusted friend ahead.

**THE END**


End file.
